


In Another Man's Skin

by dragons_in_the_north



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Body Swap, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Smut, confusingly worded Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_in_the_north/pseuds/dragons_in_the_north
Summary: Well. There were no marks on Jimmy's throat, at least. But more worryingly, it wasn’t his throat, not really. The reflection staring back at him was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his pale skin practically glowing in the pre-dawn gloom. Sharp cheekbones thrown into shadow, hair falling fetchingly across his eyes, lips red even in the half-light, dark bristles peeking out from the collar of his undershirt—He wrenched his gaze away from the glass, fixing his eyes on a blank patch of wall as he took several long, deep breaths.This was certainly a… complication.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Comments: 13
Kudos: 92





	In Another Man's Skin

**Author's Note:**

> literal years ago are-are-kay on tumblr put out a request for a thommy body swap fic. better late than never, right?

Upon waking up in Thomas' room alone after a night of considerable drinking, Jimmy Kent’s brain stalled, stuttered, and finally coughed up two explanations. One, Thomas had taken advantage of his inebriated state. This option he immediately discarded with a twinge of guilt. Thomas had learned his lesson the first time, and Jimmy trusted him not to do something like _that_ again. Two—the far more terrifying possibility—Thomas hadn’t needed to take advantage. The thoughts and feelings Jimmy could justify or rationalize or push to the side while sober might have burst forth unchecked, forcing him to say all kinds of ridiculous things, to _do_ all kinds of things—

He dashed for the mirror over the wash basin to check his neck for love bites.

Well. There were no marks on his throat, at least. But more worryingly, it wasn’t _his_ throat, not really. The reflection staring back at him was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his pale skin practically glowing in the pre-dawn gloom. Sharp cheekbones thrown into shadow, hair falling fetchingly across his eyes, lips red even in the half-light, dark bristles peeking out from the collar of his undershirt—

He wrenched his gaze away from the glass, fixing his eyes on a blank patch of wall as he took several long, deep breaths.

This was certainly a… complication.

There was knocking at his door, quiet but insistent. Nobody else should have been up at this hour, except maybe the kitchen maids. He shuffled over to the door. _Act like Thomas_ , he told himself. He straightened his spine and arranged his expression into (he hoped) something like cool indifference. Someone who was not Jimmy Kent stood on the other side of the door. There was a resemblance, to be sure, but the man in Jimmy’s dressing gown and slippers held his shoulders a little stiffer, his eyes were a little more guarded. Although his brow furrowed, his lip didn’t curl the way Jimmy’s would have.

“We need to talk,” he said. Not waiting for an answer, he pushed past Jimmy into the room.

Hurriedly, Jimmy shut the door and stormed over to where Not-Jimmy sat in a desk chair, his hands clasped in his lap. “What the hell are you playing at?” Jimmy hissed. He recoiled at the sound of his voice, nasal and flattened on the vowels.

“I could ask the same of you,” the other man replied with a significant up-and-down glance at Jimmy’s person.

Jimmy blinked. He squinted. “Mr Barrow?”

The man wearing Jimmy’s face rolled his eyes. “Yes. Mr Barrow.”

Without taking his eyes off Thomas, Jimmy found the armchair and sank down into it. The gray outside began to lighten; a bird chirped from its nearby nest in the eaves. Soon he would have to put on Thomas' livery. He would have to sit in Thomas' seat at breakfast and check inventories and order about the hall boys. The thought gave him the same lurching feeling low in his stomach as when he missed a step on the stairs.

“You can quit glaring at me like it’s my fault,” Thomas said. (Lord, it was strange to hear one’s own voice coming from someone else.) “I certainly didn’t bring this on. Why would I want to be a footman again?”

_To use my body for some deviant purpose_ , Jimmy nearly answered. He shuffled his bare feet against the wooden floorboards. “Well, I didn’t do it either.”

With an impatient motion of his wrist, Thomas flicked an errant blond curl off his forehead. He got to his feet and, striding about like someone used to longer legs, fetched a packet of Black Cats and his lighter from the nightstand. He sucked on a cigarette as the flame caught, a faraway look in his eyes.

Jimmy hadn’t smoked much before coming to Downton, just a drag or two with his footman mates after dinner, but he’d taken up the habit properly as an excuse to watch Thomas as he smoked in the courtyard. The under-butler handled a cigarette as if he were standing on a stage or projected onto a cinema screen, cool and elegant, his gestures a touch too exaggerated to be natural. The sight made Jimmy’s insides turn over in a way not entirely unpleasant. Once he’d stood in front of the mirror in his own room, copying the motions and examining himself out of the corner of his eye. Even wearing Jimmy’s body, Thomas didn’t look half so silly now as Jimmy had then.

“What if something happened to you last night?” said Thomas. Jimmy opened his mouth to protest, but he ploughed on, “You didn’t meet any old crones asking for help, did you? That’s usually how this sort of thing gets started.” He smirked, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. “Assuming you remember anything from that evening.”

Jimmy groaned. “Go on, tell me how I made a fool of meself.”

He went to put his head in his hands and realized Thomas didn’t wear his glove to bed. His eyes automatically took note of the scarring that warped the skin, the bullet-shaped divot almost in the center of the palm (still pink and raw-looking years after the war), the awkward bend of the ring finger and pinky. Immediately, he felt as if he was looking at something he ought not to. His cheeks burned like a naughty child’s. He squeezed his—Thomas'— _the_ hand between his thigh and the side of the armchair, out of sight. When he looked up again, Thomas' gaze was fixed to where it was hid. Something dark and melancholy had settled into his features. Then it drifted away like a cloud on a breeze, and he was back to smugly puffing away at his fag.

“You tried to dance with Mrs Patmore. She didn’t much care for that, I can tell you.” His eyes softened a bit at the corners. “And then you played a piece on the piano you swore you’d written about me. It was Chopin, I think.” He shrugged. “After that, you went up to bed before Mr Carson caught sight of you.”

Jimmy ran his good hand across his eyes. “I didn’t notice any witches.”

He heard the _shush_ of slippered feet over a worn rug, and Thomas was standing over him, cigarette extended. “Here,” he said, in that infuriatingly gentle way he only used with Jimmy. It didn’t sound quite right with Jimmy’s voice, too rough and too tender and too strange. “Take a drag. It’ll calm you down.”

With hardly a moment’s thought, he grabbed Thomas' wrist. Thomas inhaled sharply through his nose, his pulse stuttering under the pad of Jimmy’s thumb. He never realized how golden his own skin was until he saw Thomas' pale, slender fingers wrapped around his arm. He snatched his hand away as if he’d been burnt.

“Sorry. I thought—” Jimmy watched the smoke curl into the air, ignoring the weight of Thomas' eyes on him. “I thought perhaps if we touched—”

“We would return to our proper places?” A raised eyebrow, such a Thomas-like expression on Jimmy’s former face, and it made Jimmy smile despite himself.

He took the cigarette from Thomas, holding the smoke in his mouth for a heartbeat or two before exhaling. The world seemed to settle beneath his feet a bit, no longer careening wildly out from under him. Thomas was a maudlin fool, too brave and too clever for his own—or anyone else’s—good, and yet… and yet Jimmy was comforted to know they were together in this.

It was a sight better than being stuck in Alfred’s body, anyhow.

The cigarette returned to Thomas' hand, and he paced from one end of the room to the other—a common occurrence, if the wear of the rug was to be believed. “We can’t tell anyone else, obviously. Mr Carson will have us locked up in a lunatic asylum before you can say Jack Robinson.” He huffed through his nose, smoke pouring out his nostrils. “Until I sort this business out, we’ll just have to… play the part, so to speak.”

Jimmy got to his feet and snatched the fag from Thomas' fingers, finishing it off and stubbing it out in a nearby ashtray. “But I hardly know what an under-butler bloody well _does_.”

“I’ll help you,” said Thomas, “when I have time. And we’ll compare notes so we don’t make a mess of things.”

A creak came from the hall. Both men flinched. They waited to hear footsteps or voices or the flush of the W.C., but the noise was only an old house settling. Thomas slipped his Black Cats and lighter into the pocket of Jimmy’s borrowed robe. “I should leave before the others wake up. Wouldn’t want me—that is to say, _you_ —to be seen sneaking out of my room in the early hours.” He peered through a crack in the door, ducked his head out, then disappeared into the hall, soundless as a cat. And Jimmy stood in the middle of the room, his own face an afterimage dancing behind his eyelids when he blinked.

\---

Climbing the stairs with a tureen of steaming hot soup in his hands, Thomas misstepped—kicking at a stair rather than placing his foot upon it—and nearly spilled the whole thing down his front. A passing maid snickered into her hand. He opened his mouth to tell her off before remembering he was a mere footman again. Inwardly, he cursed Jimmy’s short legs.

“Watch yourself,” Alfred said from behind him.

As if the ginger giraffe didn’t trip over thin air half the time. Thomas grunted in reply. Normally he would have thought himself above such childishness, but he was Jimmy Kent now, wasn’t he?

After luncheon, Alfred grabbed him by the arm and led him into the empty boot room.

“Jimmy, is something wrong?” Alfred’s face was twisted up in concern. “You’ve been acting funny all day.”

Thomas frowned. “Just tired, is all.”

“But you didn’t hear when Mr Carson called for you earlier. And when we passed the mirror in the hall, you saw your reflection and nearly jumped out of your skin.”

How did Jimmy put up with Alfred’s yammering day in and day out? The man deserved a medal. “It’s not my day, I suppose. I’ll feel better tomorrow.” That’s what he was hoping for, anyhow—that the universe had temporarily gone mad, and by the next morning it would reassert its normalcy.

An expression crossed Alfred’s face rather like Isis when she was on a scent. “This isn’t—” He leaned forward, pitched his voice lower. “This isn’t about Mr Barrow, is it?”

Thomas bit hard at the inside of his cheek. The copper tang of blood hit his tongue. “No,” he said firmly.

“Only you acted exactly like this the last time—”

“It has absolutely nothing to do with him.”

Pushing past him, Thomas made for the kitchens. A headache was forming behind his eyes; he wanted nothing more than to steal an hors d’oeuvre or two and to trade barbs with Mrs Patmore when she caught him.

Mrs Patmore was not in the kitchens. Near the sink, her back to him, Daisy scolded one of the scullery maids for not washing a pot properly. Dinner preparations were already underway, and Ivy wielded a terrifyingly large knife to chop a bowl of green apples into quarters. She peered up at Thomas, smiling coyly. Her cheeks were stained with pink, either from rouge or exertion or the heat coming off the stove in waves.

“Hullo, Jimmy,” she said.

“We’re supposed to call him _James_ ,” said Daisy, not bothering to turn round.

Ivy huffed, shooting Thomas a long-suffering look. “Alfred calls him Jimmy.” She grabbed a new apple from the bowl, peeling off the skin in a long, green spiral. “Even Mr Barrow calls him Jimmy.”

Thomas stood beside her and lit a cigarette. Ivy watched with undisguised interest, coughing a little when the smoke drifted towards her face. “Are you still going to see that Mary Pickford picture on your half-day?” she asked him.

A couple of days ago Jimmy had gushed about the actress over breakfast, calling her _Queen of the Movies_ , even. Mr Carson had grumbled something about entertainers corroding the moral backbone of the British Empire, and Jimmy had grinned cheekily behind his teacup. At the sight of Jimmy’s eyes shining at Thomas over the porcelain rim, something warm and aching had bloomed to life in Thomas' chest.

“Might be,” Thomas said, because it seemed like what Jimmy would say, and he winked for good measure.

Ivy giggled.

Thomas knew Jimmy and Ivy had lately developed a flirtation. He also knew, on Jimmy’s side at least, it was nothing serious. Truthfully, that stung more than if Jimmy were actually smitten. Thomas wanted Jimmy to be in love. He wanted Jimmy settled and married and with a rosy-cheeked child on each knee. Because then, perhaps, his heart would finally catch up with his head and realize what a hopeless endeavor wanting Jimmy Kent was.

“Are you going to see the film alone?” Ivy inclined her head and batted her lashes in a manner she’d probably read about in _Woman’s Way_.

A lock of golden hair fell into Thomas' eyes. He’d learned that morning Jimmy’s hair actively resisted the application of brillantine. He smoothed it back into place with his unoccupied hand, and it immediately sprang free again. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said between puffs on his cigarette. “My half-day is a ways off.”

Ivy smiled, all pink and soft and utterly boring. “If you change your mind—” She glanced over Thomas' shoulder. “Afternoon, Mr Barrow. What’s the thundercloud face for?”

A shadowy figure in the doorway, Jimmy crossed his arms and said through gritted teeth, “Never you mind. James, Mr Carson sent me to fetch you.”

He led Thomas away from Mr Carson’s office, out into the courtyard. Thomas reached for his Black Cats in his trouser pocket, but Jimmy made a terse _don’t bother_ gesture. A stiff breeze whipped through the nearby trees. Somewhere far off, Isis was barking.

Jimmy hissed, “What in the _hell_ were you flirting with Ivy for?”

Thomas wasn’t used to looking up at Jimmy. The cold, pale eyes and the clenched jaw reminded him uncomfortably of his father. He fought the urge to gnaw at his thumbnail, a boyhood habit. “I was trying to be you. That was the plan, remember?”

“Yes, but, but—Alfred wasn’t even there to be jealous!”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “All the same, I thought you’d be thrilled to have a pretty girl on your arm.”

Jimmy’s face went from white to bright red in a matter of seconds. “Don’t take her to the flicks, all right?” Stiffly, he held out his gloved hand. “And hand over the fags, those are mine now.” He forgot to ask for the lighter, so Thomas kept it, running his thumb along the cool, metal side as Jimmy stomped back into the house, the stone scuffing Thomas' just-shined shoes.

Thomas threw a towel over the mirror before he changed for the night. It was one thing to throw on Jimmy’s livery in the midst of the morning rush, quite another to undress by the low light of the desk lamp, with the whole night ahead of him, with no one around to _see_ —

Better to banish his new reflection and cut out temptation before it could take root. This body wasn’t his to be gawking at.

He removed the clothes as carefully as he could with trembling fingers. Allowing himself to stare openly at the smooth expanse of skin, but only touching what he had to. Safe in Jimmy’s pyjamas, he found three crumpled cigarettes in a cardboard packet beside his washbasin. He got into bed—Jimmy’s bed, technically, although that line of thinking would lead nowhere good. He lit one of the cigarettes. Out of habit, he reached for the well-thumbed copy of _Treasure Island_ he keptin his own nightstand, but of course it wasn’t there. Instead, his fingers closed around an old issue of _The Strand Magazine_ , the binding coming loose and a tea stain splashed across the bustling street corner illustrated on the cover.

Halfway through his second fag and most of the way through a rather lurid story about a dashing gentleman thief, Thomas thought, _I love a man with the worst taste._

He sighed, and finished his smoke, and fell asleep with his face buried in the pillow. Beneath the superficial smell of smoke, he inhaled Jimmy’s scent—his pomade, his sweat, his working class lad cologne. It gave him wonderful, terrible dreams that left him frustrated and aching in the morning. As his alarm clock shrieked at him, he stuck his knuckle between his teeth and bit down hard, trying to think of ice baths or the Dowager Countess stripped to her undergarments, anything but what Jimmy’s cock must look like at full salute inside his sleep trousers.

\---

Jimmy hunched over the table in the servants’ hall, checking the inventories once more before bed—which was to say, Thomas, who sat beside him, was discreetly looking them over to make certain he hadn’t bungled any of it. The air smelled of their after-dinner smoke and the ginger biscuits Daisy had made for the servants on a whim. The steady _creak-creak_ of the nearby rocking chair counted out the time—Mr Bates was settled in it by the fire, the evening paper fanned out on his lap. A tanned, square-tipped finger tapped a column of the wine list. A murmur in Jimmy’s ear alerted him to an error. He scratched out a number with his pen and wrote in a new one. When he glanced up again, Mr Bates was watching the two of them with shiny, beetle-black eyes.

“Something the matter, Mr Bates?” said Thomas, something of his cold drawl lost when it was channeled through Jimmy’s voice.

“Not at all,” Bates said lightly.

Thomas turned his attention back to the game of solitaire spread out in front of him. Drawing a jack of hearts, he placed it neatly on top of the queen of spades in his second pile. He leaned back in his chair in a languid, cat-like motion, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, his blond hair glinting in the firelight, and Jimmy thought perhaps Thomas had become a little too good at acting the role of Jimmy Kent.

“Better to see you two getting on,” Bates continued, “than otherwise.” He was staring directly at Jimmy, his eyes widening by fractions, and Jimmy realized the old fool was trying to communicate something _private_ to him—or rather, to Thomas.

The smirk vanished. “It’s rather late,” said Thomas. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your cottage? Must be a long walk with that bad leg of yours.”

Bates barely spared him a glance. “Anna’s finishing up with Lady Mary. She should be down in a minute.” He turned a page, sending the paper in his lap rustling like startled birds. “But I appreciate the concern, James. You’re almost as thoughtful as Mr Barrow these days.”

Heeled shoes tip-tapped their way down the stairs, and Anna popped her head in, pale hair shining white under the gas lamps. “Come along, Mr Bates,” she said, smiling fondly. Jimmy wondered if she called him that all the time, even in bed, but some things were too disturbing to dwell on.

It took Bates ages to get to his feet. Once he’d steadied himself with his cane, his eyes were back on Jimmy’s. “A few days ago, Mr Carson mentioned he heard noises in the hall when he was waking up. Rats, he thinks.” His tone was casual, his stare dark and deep. “I’d be careful of that, Thomas. Both of you.”

And perhaps Thomas wasn’t the only one too intent on his part, because Jimmy’s reply came without hesitation, without even conscious thought; it sprang from Jimmy’s mouth as if from Thomas' own: “That’s Mr Barrow to you.”

Bates rolled his eyes heavenward, sighing as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Anna, bemused, led him away, tossing goodnights behind her as they left. Once they’d disappeared from view, Thomas' composed expression slipped from Jimmy’s borrowed features. He laughed—a delighted, full-bodied sound so different from his usual self-conscious, breathy chuckles. It left Jimmy lightheaded, an odd feeling when unaccompanied by ale. Heat rushed to his cheeks, and he cursed Thomas' pale complexion, sure to show every bit of colour.

Later, when everyone except the two of them had gone to bed—well, not including Mr Carson, but he was locked up in his office—Jimmy could finally ask, “Do you think Mr Bates… knows?”

Thomas shot him a doubtful look, fine blond brows drawing together. “That I’m you and you’re me? Not bloody likely.”

Glaring right back, Jimmy said, “Well, he’s got _something_ into his head. He weren’t talking about rats, I know that much.”

Thomas' eyes dropped to the deck of cards sitting on the table. His mouth tight, he picked up the cards and shuffled them aimlessly. (He’d finished with solitaire an hour ago.) Even with both hands in proper working order, he wasn’t as skilled at riffling the deck as Jimmy, and a couple of cards flew out and fell to the floor. “Who knows what goes on in that pea-brain of his?” Thomas replied as he leaned down to retrieve them.

For just a moment before Thomas' head disappeared under the table, Jimmy saw his own profile in perfect outline—the straight nose, the swoop of hair, the full lips pouting outwards. A wretched feeling, one he’d become familiar with over the past several days, hit him like a blow to the gut. It was homesickness, in a way—homesickness for his true life. He was bone-tired, and he longed to stumble up the stairs to _his_ room and to crawl into _his_ bed. Not so long ago, the thought that he might miss his wobbly desk chair and lumpy mattress was laughable, but there it was.

“We’re going to be trapped like this forever,” he said woodenly.

Thomas sat up again, the runaway cards pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t say that.”

But now that he’d begun, the words poured from Jimmy like a fountain. “It’s been nearly a week; if it were going to wear off, it would’ve done by now—”

“I told you I’ll sort it out.”

“—and if it’s a curse or something, we haven’t the faintest clue how to break it—”

“Jimmy—”

“—all we can do is bloody _wait_ —”

“ _Jimmy_.”

Warmth pressed between his shoulder blades, and Jimmy’s voice choked off at the realization that Thomas had put his hand on him. Very occasionally, Jimmy would initiate physical contact with Thomas—in a friendly manner, not in any way that could be… misinterpreted. But, aside from their fingers brushing when he passed him a cigarette, Thomas always kept his distance. He wondered how pathetic he must look for Thomas to forget his unspoken rule.

His voice soft, Thomas said, “I know you don’t fancy living out your years as an old, worn out under-butler with a dodgy hand.”

Jimmy leaned into the touch, his breath evening out. “Don’t be a numpty. You’re not old. And the hand’s not so bad really.” He flexed his fingers inside the leather glove. “I saw worse in the war.”

“We all did,” Thomas replied, so quietly Jimmy might have imagined it. Then he was clearing his throat, his voice composed again. “If this, ah, strangeness persists, we’ll leave. Go somewhere no one knows us. You can be Jimmy again, in name if nothing else.”

The thought of running away with Thomas Barrow was not as terrifying as it ought to be. Who else would keep him out of trouble, after all? “I haven’t—” Jimmy grimaced, his mind flashing to racetracks and smoky back rooms in pubs. “—made the wisest investments with me money.”

Thomas' thumb moved in a slow circle against the material of Jimmy’s livery jacket, not unlike when he’d put his hands on Jimmy at the piano ages ago. Perhaps Jimmy should have been uncomfortable with such a gesture, the way a proper man would be, but he couldn’t muster up the energy. Not when he was so exhausted. Not when there wasn’t Miss O’Brien or Mr Carson or who-bloody-ever around to stare, to whisper, to think less of him for it.

“That’s all right,” said Thomas. “I have a bit tucked away for a rainy day.” Jimmy glanced up at his face. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but his eyes twinkled with a dark humour that made Jimmy’s pulse jump. “And I can always… acquire more.”

Jimmy snorted. “Kidnap Isis again, why don’t you? I’m sure you could wring a kingly sum out of Lord Grantham for her safe return.”

With a groan, the smug look on Thomas' face fell away. He tipped his head back, a golden sliver of his throat exposed over the top of his collar. “I knew I never should have told you about that.”

“I’m a good listener, me.”

“The pints of ale you kept pushing on me had something to do with it, I think.”

Jimmy grinned, and Thomas grinned in return.

Then—the squeak of the unoiled hinges on Mr Carson’s office door, the snick of a key turning in the lock. Thomas moved his chair a respectable distance away, and his hand dropped from Jimmy’s back. His skin beneath the livery felt cold without it. “I’ll think on what you said,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “About leaving.”

He fled to the servants’ staircase before Thomas could reply.

Jimmy found the key on accident. It was the under-butler’s half-day, and he was hunting through Thomas' wardrobe for the grey suit that set off Thomas' eyes nicely. When he yanked aside a winter coat, something metallic clinked against the wooden bottom. He had to get down on his knees and feel around before his fingers brushed against a small, silver key. Held up to the light in the palm of his hand, it was obviously not a door key, but he didn’t know what else it could open.

That night, after he’d returned from the pub with a pleasant buzzing in his skull, he set about finding the lock that went with the key. If he felt a twinge of guilt at rifling through Thomas' things, the warmth swirling around his stomach made it easy to ignore. Besides, with their unique situation, all of this was _his_ property, really. He searched the expected places—inside drawers, behind the armchair, under the mattress—but he came up empty handed. Somewhere better hidden, then. He moved the wardrobe a few inches from where it had been shoved against the wall, half expecting a secret passage behind it, and found a wooden rectangle balanced on the molding running along the bottom. It was about the size and shape of a cigar box with a keyhole the right size. He set it down at the end of the bed.

Suddenly much too warm in his suit, Jimmy washed up and put on Thomas' pyjamas. After a moment’s thought, he jammed Thomas' desk chair up under the doorknob. He sat on the bed, his shoulder blades against the cold metal of the headboard, the thin pillow bunched around the small of his back. The box rested in his lap. He tried the key, and it fit neatly, turning in the lock with a quiet click.

A queer feeling of reverence came over him as he gazed at the items within. He picked each one up and set it carefully to the side. An envelope addressed to a Mr and Mrs Courtenay with _RETURN TO SENDER_ stamped across the front. A toy soldier, most of the paint worn away from the tin. A cloth flower with a waxy, green stem; the purple faded from the petals, but the strong scent of lavender still clinging to the fabric. A yellowed pencil sketch of a girl with Thomas' cheekbones and waves of dark hair pulled back by a ribbon—written at the top, in neat, precise letters: _Self-portrait of Katherine Barrow, aged 15 (1897)_.

Lost in thought, Jimmy peeled the leather glove from his hand and threw it onto the nightstand. Seeing these trinkets laid out before him—pieces of his life Thomas had felt the need to hide away from all the world—it was almost like seeing Thomas naked. Not that Jimmy would ever _want_ to see—

There was something else at the bottom of the box.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but a small stack of photographs was tucked into the corner. He fished the pictures out, untied the string wrapped around them. In the first photograph, an oiled and well-muscled man dressed as Tarzan posed alluringly in front of a matte painting of a lush jungle, his loincloth clinging to his hips.

Heat rushed to Jimmy’s face. He’d seen these sort of pictures passed around by his fellow soldiers in the barracks, although those were of women, of course. A brief thrill to distract from the bombs exploding overhead and the mud sucking at the soles of their boots. Not that any of the black-and-white ladies lounging in their underthings had much thrilled Jimmy. It hadn’t been the girls _themselves_ , obviously. If a real, flesh-and-blood woman were in front of him, looking like that, she would stir in him appropriate, manly feelings, he was certain.

The next photographed bloke was done up like Heracles, brandishing a cardboard sword and wearing a tunic that left little to the imagination. A pirate, a matador, and a fairy-story prince followed. The final picture was of two men, both shirtless—a smaller, fair-haired fellow wrapped up in the arms of a tall chap with slick, black hair. The blond man was almost swooning, his head tilted to the side, exposing the length of his white throat. The dark man stood just behind him, one hand gripping his chest and the other resting daringly low on his stomach. His open mouth revealed a pair of fake fangs, his posture reared back as if to strike.

Inside his pyjama trousers, Jimmy’s cock twitched. That… that was only natural, he supposed. It was really _Thomas'_ cock, after all. Of course it would take an interest in images of men being all glistening and muscular and handsome—

His erection hardened further, pressing insistently against the wooden box in his lap.

He nudged the box towards the end of the bed and slid down his pyjama trousers and pants. He’d glimpsed Thomas'… manhood when he’d had to bathe or piss or change out of his undergarments in this new body, but it’d never been so _present_ before. It wasn’t bad-looking, as far as that sort of thing went. It was a good length, thick, nestled among black, wiry curls.

If Thomas' body was responding to those pictures, who was Jimmy to argue? It wouldn’t be any different than bringing himself off under normal circumstances, surely. Rucking his shirt up with his left hand, he ran his right through the dusting of dark bristles across his chest, a finger catching on his nipple and drawing a hiss from his lips. He dipped down to the tempting line of hair running from belly to cock, but he couldn’t take the teasing for long. Gently, he pulled back his foreskin, wincing a little as the cool air hit the head of his penis. He closed his warm fingers over the tip, pumping his fist in smooth, even strokes, swiping his thumb along the slit to spread the fluid gathering there.

Looking down like he was, it was obvious that Thomas' hand was moving around him—soft, pale, with long, slender fingers and neatly-trimmed nails. It was easy to imagine Thomas himself stroking him, leaning over him on the bed, whispering sweet and sinful things into his ear. His breath hot on Jimmy’s cheek, those piercing eyes alight with desire. But even easier—Jimmy’s eyes roved over the broad chest, the soft belly, the gorgeous jut of cock— _much_ easier to imagine _he_ was touching _Thomas_. And with that thought, his back arched helplessly, a fresh spike of pleasure jolting through him.

His wounded hand travelled to his bollocks. He rolled them in his palm, the uneven texture of the scarring overwhelming against the sensitive skin. Biting back an embarrassing keening sound, he quickened the motions of his hands, the delicious sensations running through him so close to bringing him to the edge but not quite enough. He imagined mouthing a line along the white expanse of Thomas' inner thigh. Jimmy had known a fellow during the war who’d returned from a French whorehouse with stories of a girl who’d put her lips around him. He imagined pressing a kiss to the slit of Thomas' prick. What would that feel like? Oh God, what would it _taste_ like?

The world shrank down to a brilliant point of ecstasy and exploded outward. Jimmy’s hips bucked wildly as waves of pleasure crashed over him, his hand clapped over his mouth to muffle a loud groan. When it was over, he sank back against the sheets, warm and loose-limbed and sated. For a few minutes.

Like a sudden rainshower, the reality of what he’d done beat down upon him, soaking him through to the bone. He was suddenly, horrifyingly sober, shame squirming in his stomach. Once he’d thrown Thomas' treasures back in the box, the untied photographs scattered haphazardly on top, Jimmy slammed the lid and locked it tight enough to trap the devil. He hid the box back behind the wardrobe and told himself firmly that his… moment of weakness had never happened.

He slept hardly at all that night.

\---

Thomas had thought by now he knew how to navigate Jimmy’s moods. When Jimmy turned up late for breakfast, his dark hair threatening to escape its pomade hold and purple bruises under his eyes, Thomas wasn’t especially worried. Yesterday had been a half-day for him; most likely he was experiencing the aftereffects of a night of carousing. Thomas fully expected him to be back to his usual self—as much as he _could_ be, considering—by teatime.

Only he wasn’t. And, more worryingly, he avoided Thomas at every opportunity. When they stood at opposite sides of the upstairs dining room, Jimmy refused to look him in the eye. At one point, he had to relay Mr Carson’s orders to Thomas and Alfred with his face twisted up in a grimace, and he scampered from the room as soon as he could. It all felt uncomfortably similar to _that_ year, the one Jimmy and Thomas never spoke about. Which would have been bad enough, but there was also the matter of their switched identities to think of. Although Thomas loved Jimmy terribly, he didn’t fancy getting sacked because Jimmy had worked himself into a snit.

So, against his better instincts, Thomas knocked on his own door before turning in for the night.

“Did you hand over today’s inventories to Mr Carson?” he asked Jimmy when he poked his head out.

“Of course. I’m not an idiot.” He didn’t look any better than he had that morning. If anything, he looked worse. He was glaring at a spot just above Thomas' right ear, his upper lip threatening to curl into a snarl.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Is something wrong?” Jimmy raised his eyebrows, gesturing vaguely at his own—in the guise of Thomas'—body. “Something I can help you with, I mean.”

A choked, nearly hysterical laugh bubbled up from Jimmy’s throat, and he slammed the door shut. Thomas stood there, blinking, for a moment before it opened again. In Jimmy’s hands was a wooden box, his knuckles white against the dark patina. “You can take this back, for a start,” he hissed. “I’d rather not sleep in the same room as filth like this.”

“Filth like—” And then Thomas understood. “How did you find that?” he whispered. His stomach had sunken down to somewhere around his knees.

Jimmy held the box away from his body as if it might sprout fangs and bite him. At least he had the decency to keep his voice low. “You ought to be ashamed. Leering at half-dressed blokes poncing about in photographs, it’s—it’s _disgusting_.”

Thomas had heard worse from the boys at school, from his father, from bloody Carson even, but hearing it from _Jimmy_ —the man who despite everything still held Thomas' heart in the palm of his hand—made him long for the crimson agony of a bullet tearing through his flesh in the trenches of the Somme. Deep in his belly, something roared to life, a strange, snappish beast that would rather die than be made a fool of, that would happily rake its claws through anyone that made it feel pitiful and small.

“Too good for naughty pictures, are we, Jimmy? Never mind how much easier it is for you to find a warm, willing body than it is for me. If I ease my loneliness in a way that doesn’t—” He faltered, the memory of hoarse yelling and rough hands shoving him from Jimmy’s room overwhelming him. “—that doesn’t _hurt_ anyone, I reckon that’s my business.” With steady hands, he snatched the box from Jimmy’s fingers and clutched it to his chest. “You went snooping, and you found something you didn’t like. Maybe next time you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”

At no point had he spoken above a whisper.

Jimmy’s transformed face, familiar yet not, flickered between emotions too quickly to register before going unnaturally still, a porcelain Thomas mask underneath which Jimmy Kent seethed and roiled. He shut the door one final time, hard and unmistakable.

\---

“Sir, perhaps the work would go faster if Mr Barrow helped.”

_Bloody Alfred_ , Jimmy thought. _Bloody sodding gingery Alfred._ He quickened his pace down the corridor, his eyes fixed on the door that led to the safety of the servants’ stairs. If he could just reach it before—

“Ah, there you are.” Mr Carson’s booming voice carried from the open doorway. “Could you come here please, Mr Barrow?”

Thunder rattled the window panes, and lightning flashed across the bruise-coloured sky, and Jimmy shuffled forward like a man headed for the gallows. He was in a rotten mood. Everyone was, really—the rain pouring down in buckets since dawn had seen to that—but his unhappiness was, he believed, a special case. There was the bone-deep ache in his wounded hand, which woke him well ahead of Thomas' alarm clock and gnawed persistently at him as morning marched on towards noon. There was the raw unpleasantness between him and Thomas from the night before, which made them avoid one another’s eyes across the breakfast table, heat prickling at the back of Jimmy’s neck. And finally there was Lady Mary’s bloody-minded insistence that she and Master George have their planned midday picnic, foul weather be damned.

To accommodate this, all the furniture and instruments in the music room were being moved up against the walls. It was such an ordeal that the footmen had been called in to assist the hall boys despite luncheon being served to the rest of the family in a little under half an hour. And now it appeared “Mr Barrow” was being roped into the chaos as well.

Puffing up his chest, Jimmy said, “Mr Carson, as under-butler, I really think—”

“As _under-butler_ , Mr Barrow, your primary concern is the happiness of the family you serve.” Mr Carson gestured to where Alfred, Thomas, and one of the smaller hall boys were struggling to lift a grand piano. “In your own time.”

Once he’d taken his position, knees bent and fingers gripping the varnished wood, he paused to deliver his best attempt at a cold, haughty, Barrowian glare in Alfred’s direction. The lummox had the good sense to look suitably chagrined, but out of the corner of his eye Jimmy spotted Thomas barely concealing a smirk. It made him want to scream. To think the man had the nerve to be pleased when he’d been caught with illicit photographs in his possession. Not just that, he’d _enjoyed_ looking at them; he’d taken himself in hand and entertained smutty fantasies about a man he worked beside every day, his best and only friend in all the world, the one person he’d sworn to never have any feelings of the sort for—

No. Wait. That hadn’t been Thomas, it had just been someone who looked exactly like him.

As the piano lifted off the ground, Jimmy’s hand throbbed sickeningly, the pain a warning and a punishment all at once.

Later, he sat hunched over and miserable at the table in the servants’ hall, his cup of tea growing cold as he rubbed his hand through the leather of Thomas' glove. It didn’t help. The storm still refused to let up, and the steady drumming of raindrops against the roof kept time with the dull ache. If only he could play the piano, that would at least be one bright spot in the relentless melancholy. (He certainly didn’t think this because Thomas had a long-standing habit of complimenting him on his playing.)

The man himself strode in, a pack of cigarettes in hand. When he spotted Jimmy he halted in his tracks. For a moment, Jimmy thought he might turn on his heel and leave. Instead he leaned against the wall opposite him, reaching into his pocket for his lighter in one smooth, automatic movement. His gaze drifted down to Jimmy’s covered hand, to the hidden wound that in such a strange way belonged to both of them now. Familiarity and concern flickered across his borrowed, damnably changeable face.

Was this what people saw when they looked at Jimmy? Every emotion, writ large for the world to see? Anger bubbled up from his chest and opened his mouth. “I know you put Alfred up to it,” he snapped.

“Up to what?” said Thomas around the fag perched between his lips. The lighter took a couple of tries to catch, sparks glinting uselessly in the storm-darkened room.

“He’s too dull to think of making the under-butler do grunt work himself. If ‘James’ suggested it, Mr Carson would blather on about propriety, but he thinks Alfred hung the moon, God knows why.”

Thomas frowned, his full lower lip jutting out like a child’s. Smoke poured from his mouth and hovered around golden waves of hair. “I didn’t, actually. Not all of us are so petty.”

Jimmy meant to say something cutting in return, but Thomas was walking over now, standing at his side so close they could have touched. “There’s a vial of oil I keep in my nightstand drawer,” he said in an undertone. “If you massage it into your hand, it should help with the pain.”

A maid wandered in with an apron that needed mending, and Thomas left, cigarette still smoldering. Jimmy sat frozen in his chair, discomfited by the realization that, despite possessing Jimmy’s face and body and fits of temper, Thomas Barrow was still himself, first and foremost. He still cared for Jimmy’s wellbeing, even when things were black between them. Which meant Jimmy was still the same Jimmy Kent he’d been before all this mess. The same Jimmy who’d count in his head the number of steps between Thomas' room and his when he couldn’t sleep. The same Jimmy whose heart would flutter when Thomas chuckled at one of his jokes. The same Jimmy who at times stared at Thomas' red, red lips and tried to remember what they had tasted like in that breath between waking up and Alfred’s interruption.

The same Jimmy who would never do anything about any of this because he was a great, bloody coward.

But perhaps… perhaps he didn’t have to be. It was, as Thomas had said, merely a matter of playing the role he’d been given.

He got to his feet. Then he walked off in search of Thomas. He didn’t think too much about what he was doing; if he did, he would lose his nerve. The small hall boy who’d helped with the piano saw him coming and scurried away in the other direction, trying to look busy. Yes, that helped. He focused on being Thomas Barrow, the man who everyone but Jimmy misjudged, the man who had the courage to face a vicious beating in the name of love.

Thomas, the real Thomas, was in the otherwise empty boot room. Next to a pair of Lord Grantham’s shoes waiting to be cleaned sat a porcelain saucer, the ashy remains of a cigarette collected at the bottom. He hadn’t lit a new one. He simply stood in the gloom, glaring out the narrow window at the pouring rain.

“Don’t you have work to be getting on with, James?” said Jimmy in his stuffiest impression of Mr Carson. Usually in the aftermath of one of their rows, it was enough for him to make some joke or gesture to show that he bore no hard feelings. Thomas would follow suit, and all would be as it was.

Not so this time. He didn’t reply, didn’t even glance his way.

Jimmy risked standing at his side, their shoulders nearly brushing. Thomas didn’t move away, which he took as a promising sign. “About how I behaved last night—”

“You didn’t say anything that weren’t true.” He spoke in his upstairs voice, or as close as he could get using Jimmy’s mouth—each word clipped and precise and tempered until it was polite and unreachable.

“I don’t want you to live like a monk, honest.”

Thomas sighed. “What _do_ you want, Jimmy?”

He longed to confess his feelings then and there, but the words clogged his throat. It was too risky. Bates could return for the shoes, nosy Alfred could overhear and go blabbing to Mr Carson again. Jimmy caught his lip between his teeth. “I need to speak to you in private. Can I come to your— to my— to _Jimmy’s_ room tonight? After everyone’s gone to bed, I mean.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll try to ravish you?” Still he wouldn’t look in his direction.

A little desperate now, Jimmy reached out and grasped his arm. It worked, sort of. Impassive eyes stared through him as if he were the wallpaper. Without quite meaning to, Jimmy employed the Look, the one he trotted out whenever he had to persuade Thomas. He glanced up from behind his lashes, lips parted slightly, head tilted just so. It was a bit of a gamble, he supposed, doing it while wearing the wrong face, but he had few options left.

“Thomas, _please_.”

Only the eyes changed, melting like butter on a warm skillet. Then Thomas coughed and jerked his head away. “Make certain everyone’s asleep before you knock on the door. The last bloody thing we need is for Thomas Barrow to get caught sneaking into Jimmy Kent’s room in the dead of night.”

When he peered into his old bedroom shortly after midnight—the neverending downpour hammering against the bricked exterior—Jimmy found Thomas sitting at his desk, thumbing through a thick, leather-bound book as he waited, one he was certain wasn’t from his own collection. Thomas noticed him out of the corner of his eye, and the book neatly disappeared into the pocket of his dressing gown. Impatiently, he waved Jimmy inside.

“What’re you reading?”

One side of Thomas' mouth twitched. “ _Treasure Island_. I took it back from me room a few days ago. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jimmy grinned. “The one with pirates and all?”

“I’ve seen the sort of thing _you_ read, so I wouldn’t take that tone with me, James.”

While Thomas was still in an obliging mood, Jimmy held out his blighty, ungloved this time, like a child presenting a schoolyard scrape to his mother. “The oil didn’t help,” he lied.

Thomas rolled his eyes and gestured for Jimmy to sit nearby on the bed. Deliberately he positioned himself far enough away that Thomas had to join him on the edge of the mattress to take Jimmy’s hand in his own. He pressed his thumb into the meat of Jimmy’s palm, rolling it along the outside of the circular pit. “Too much pressure?” he asked.

“Not at all,” replied Jimmy. The words sounded far-away. A tingling sensation climbed up his arm.

Thomas began to massage the hand in earnest, deft fingers kneading muscle and bone. He’d told Jimmy once that he’d been a medic during the war, which explained the detached, clinical expression he wore—the exact sort you’d want to see on a man holding together your mangled leg, and the exact sort you didn’t want to see on a man you were intending to seduce. His hands, however, gave him away entirely. They lingered over patches of pale, exposed skin that didn’t strictly require the extra attention, a faint tremor running through the fingertips as they worked to unbend the cramping pinky and ring finger. The ache sharpened at first under his ministrations, then settled, then faded to the background of Jimmy’s mind. Time turned to syrup. Raindrops danced up and down the windowpane. All he knew was how he felt—warm, content, deliciously cared-for.

When a gentle thumb brushed against the blue vein running from palm to tender wrist, a low, pleased sound escaped his throat, and Thomas jerked away like he’d caught hold of a hot poker. “You came here to speak with me about something, didn’t you?” he said, voice strained.

“Don’t be like that,” said Jimmy. “I want you to touch me.”

Thomas' head dropped into his hands. “Christ, Jimmy. You can’t _say_ those sorts of things. It sounds like—”

“I know what it bloody well sounds like.”

Slowly, the blond head lifted. Thomas feigned interest in the worn floorboards beneath his slippers, poking at a loose nail with his toe. “You’ve been stuck in my body for too long. It’s made you desire… things you wouldn’t otherwise.”

“We both know that’s not how it works. I’m still me, Thomas, I’m still Jimmy. Well, being you has made me a bit braver, I suppose. Brave enough for this, anyway.”

Thomas glanced up, wide-eyed. “Brave enough for wha—” he managed before Jimmy leaned in and kissed him.

Lips brushed against one another, then pressed firmly, and then Thomas was stiffening and pulling away. His face crumpled into an expression so miserable it killed the butterflies fluttering in Jimmy’s stomach with one swift blow. “I can’t, Jimmy,” he whispered. “I can’t do this. What if you change your mind come morning? What if you go running to Carson? I won’t dodge the chopping block twice.”

A bark of laughter burst free, and Jimmy automatically clapped a hand to his mouth. Thomas frowned, eyes darting to the door, but a timely thunderbolt had camouflaged the noise.

After a pause, Jimmy said, very deliberately, “Thomas. _Look_ at me.”

Thomas blinked slowly, like a cat. Obediently, he took in the sight of the Abbey’s under-butler sitting beside him, soft, dark hair rinsed free of pomade and stubble shadowing his upper lip. For a moment, he’d forgotten entirely the curse upon them. At the realization, he became a hopeful boy again, an uncanny vision of young Jimmy Kent with tousled hair and trembling lips. It made the true Jimmy ache to hold him close. But no. Not yet.

“Mr Carson would never mistake me for an innocent, not looking like this,” he said, the words tripping over one another in their hurry to be out of his mouth. “But you could go to him. You could do it right now. If you truly hate me for… for things I’ve done, and things I haven’t done, and things I did too late, then you can walk down the hall and tell him what just happened.” He heaved a great, shuddering breath. “Tell him Mr Barrow snuck into your room in the dead of night and kissed you. I’ll be sacked on the spot, and… you’ll never have to see me again.”

Now he was the one who wouldn’t look at Thomas.

As the heavens threatened to wash Downton away, warm fingers pressed against his jaw, urging him to turn his head. When he did, he noticed first the tear shining on Thomas’ cheek in the yellow lamplight, then the perfect calm of his face. “I could never hate you.”

The second kiss was a proper one, slow and sweet and careful. Only Thomas’ hand cupping his face kept Jimmy from floating up to the ceiling. As he threaded his fingers through silken strands of hair, settling at the nape of Thomas’ neck, they broke apart, inhaling and exhaling as one. Jimmy actually blushed and fluttered his eyelashes, which simply wouldn’t do. He wasn’t some swooning maiden. He was—he was _bold_ , like the men in Thomas’ secret photographs. He would show Thomas just how bold he could be.

Without hesitation, he nibbled on Thomas’ lower lip, and—when Thomas let out a lovely, helpless sound—licked his way into his mouth. Slick tongues slid against one another, and _oh_ Thomas was good at that. Heat flared to life in Jimmy’s belly, his hands scrabbling beneath the hem of Thomas’ undershirt, suddenly desperate to stroke the hair dusting his chest, desperate to hear the noises Thomas would make _then_ —

Fingers slid up smooth, soft, hairless skin. Confused, Jimmy pulled away. He blinked, and his own familiar face swam into focus, cheeks flushed, lips puffy and shiny with saliva.

Oh, right. The curse. And here he’d thought Thomas a fool for forgetting.

“Bit awkward, isn’t it?” Thomas said, smiling shyly. “Perhaps—” He swallowed. “Perhaps we should wait until things are back to normal before we try for anything… more involved.”

“No,” said Jimmy, louder than he’d meant to, but it could be years before they lifted the curse, maybe never. The thought of never being with Thomas in that way was intolerable. Certainly it was strange to kiss one’s own lips and caress one’s own skin, but that just meant they had to be clever about it, that was all. Find some way to make the scenario feel… natural.

An idea sparked to life in Jimmy’s brain.

He maneuvered his body until he was sitting ramrod straight against the headboard. After a bit of thought, he clasped his hands in his lap and tilted his chin so he could literally look down his nose at Thomas, who by this point was staring at him with open curiosity.

“You see, James,” Jimmy said in a cold drawl he’d heard a hundred times, volleyed at rowdy hall boys or silly, distracted maids, but never himself. “I’ve summoned you here because, if you want me to put in a good word for you with Mr Carson, you’ll have to prove yourself to me. We can’t have just any old chap in the position of first footman. I have to know whether you possess the necessary skills—that you’re good with your hands, and can obey orders without question, and, uh—” What else, what else? “—can keep your master satisfied at all hours.”

Thomas’ expression hadn’t changed. Jimmy felt daring and foolish all at once. “You’d best hope I’m pleased with your efforts, or you’ll be punished and no mistake,” he added for good measure.

Thomas stood up and walked to the door. Jimmy thought for a moment he’d insulted him, but instead of leaving, he wedged the desk chair under the doorknob. He stripped off his robe and undershirt, dropping them to the floor, before he turned back around. Eyes wide and lips parted in a film starlet’s pout, he clutched a hand to his tanned chest. “Oh, Mr Barrow, sir,” said Thomas, “I’d do absolutely _anything_ to be first footman. I’m handsome enough for the job, don’t you think?”

Jimmy glared daggers. “Oi! I don’t carry on like that!”

Thomas smirked. “Well, I don’t carry on like _that_ —” He gestured vaguely at Jimmy sitting primly on the bed. “—but I reckon we can allow one another creative license, aye?”

Now he was creeping over to the bed, lithe and graceful as a jungle cat. At the sight of sinewy muscles moving beneath golden skin, Jimmy’s words deserted him, his blood rushing south. He nodded, or at least he tried to.

“What would you like me to do, Mr Barrow?” Thomas sat down on the bed, crawled on his knees between Jimmy’s legs. “I put myself entirely in your hands.”

“I want—” His voice was thin and reedy, not Thomas-like at all. He cleared his throat. “I want you to undress me. And yourself. I need to know you can serve as valet for guests, if need be.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The way Thomas slid him out of his clothes was anything but professional. Neither was the smug tilt of his eyebrow when Jimmy moaned as wandering hands “accidentally” brushed against his cock while peeling off his underpants. He sagged back against the pillow, drinking in Thomas easing his own trousers and pants down his thighs, his face red, his breath coming heavy—not nearly so composed as he’d pretended. Once they were both nude, any remaining hesitation evaporated. Funny how Jimmy could get so hot and bothered by a body he was used to regarding with mild disinterest in the bath every morning. But it was _Thomas_ in front of him—his heaving chest, his gentle, awed half-smile, his erection bobbing between his legs—and that made all the difference.

If Thomas’ roving eyes were any indication, the feeling was very much mutual. A triangle of pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the action zinged like electricity up Jimmy’s spine. Not touching the man kneeling before him on this tiny, narrow bed in this tiny, narrow room was rapidly becoming a physical ache. Jimmy released his hands from where they’d been gripping the threadbare quilt for dear life, held them out beseechingly. “Kiss me, Thomas.”

“Call me ‘Jimmy,’ Mr Barrow, please,” said Thomas, but he fell willingly into the circle of Jimmy’s arms. He pressed burning kisses to his lips, then his cheek, then his jaw, pausing to nuzzle against his throat. “You know, I’m starting to realize there are certain advantages to our… unique situation.”

“Such as?” Jimmy whispered. The feel of warm, sweat-damp skin was intoxicating beneath his fingertips; it went straight to his head as surely as any fine wine. He kneaded the muscles of Thomas’ back before dipping down teasingly close to the swell of his arse.

In response, a soft, open mouth trailed up, up to a spot just behind Jimmy’s ear, nibbling with precisely the right amount of teeth. A hot wave of desire swept him up and away—dimly, he was aware of his hips bucking forward, a whimper escaping his throat. Everything went white for a moment, but that may have been a flash of lightning outside the window. “Such as,” Thomas said, eyes glittering puckishly in the half-light, “I’m currently a very attentive footman who knows precisely what Mr Barrow likes.”

“I like _you_ ,” said Jimmy. He circled the tip of his tongue around a brown nipple. Thomas gasped. As Jimmy lavished attention onto the other one, he felt his scalp prickle with the pain-pleasure of strong fingers tugging at his hair.

“Mmm, that’s it, sweetheart. That’s absolutely _perfect_ —”

_Sweetheart_. The word reverberated through Jimmy like the toll of a bell. He froze.

Thomas froze too. “I—I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, sir. You won’t take away my half-day, will you?” What he said was part of the game, but there was real fear threading his voice, kicking the chest inches from Jimmy’s face into an unsteady rhythm. And for what? Because he’d called Jimmy something so wonderful it had lit him up from the inside?

“You didn’t say anything out of turn,” Jimmy said softly. Then, with force, “But you’ve been very naughty indeed. You lied to me.”

“I did?”

“You told me you came to my room tonight to earn the right to be first footman. That’s simply not true.” He sat up, Thomas sinking back onto his heels. “I’m under-butler around here, in case you’ve forgotten. Nothing escapes my notice in this house, least of all that a silly footman named Jimmy Kent has been in love with me since—since God knows when.”

“You have?” Thomas squeaked. “I mean, _I_ have. You see right through me, Mr Barrow.”

“You’re so hopelessly besotted, in fact—” Jimmy was really getting into the role now. “—that if I, Thomas Barrow, asked you to run off with me for some mad, curse-related reason, you’d do it, Jimmy. Without a reference, without anything but the clothes on your back, if that’s how it had to be. Because… because what’s the bloody point of being Jimmy _contra mundi_ when you’ve found someone you want to be with always?”

A baritone roll of thunder rattled the jars and bottles atop Jimmy’s dresser. Rivers of rainwater rushed through creaking gutters. And in the middle of it all, Thomas gazed up at Jimmy, pupils blown wide. “If what you suggest is true,” he said, “then you ought to discipline me.” A slyness crept across his features. He rested his hand upon Jimmy’s knee. “But I don’t think you will.”

Where their skin touched, Jimmy felt a sort of tingling, magnetic pull—a force of nature, inexorable as gravity or the tides, drawing them ever closer to one another. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t go thinking I’ll be lenient with you just because you’re so handsome and clever and talented at piano.”

A squeeze of the knee, more intimate than arousing. “I _know_ you won’t, sir, because you love me too.” Thomas ducked his head. He muttered, “Not that it’s much of a secret.”

“It’s still nice to hear aloud,” said Jimmy. “I mean, I imagine it must be. For you.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. The fingertips of Jimmy’s damaged hand traced the outline of his lips. “ _Yes_.” He kissed Jimmy passionately until the other man was quite beyond words. Thomas, however, was not. As he slid his warm, heavy palm up Jimmy’s bare thigh, he whispered into his ear, “Now that’s settled, may I _please_ —” His hand faltered. “—polish your… candlestick?” They both broke into fits of giggles.

“You may,” Jimmy said imperiously. Feather-light fingers travelled up and down his tender shaft; suddenly, neither man was laughing anymore. On the crest of a needy, muffled groan, his hips arched into the sensation, desperate for more pressure—and the hand disappeared.

He growled low in his throat. “I’ll have you sacked, James, I swear I will.”

“Patience, Mr Barrow.” Thomas lifted his hand to his face and spit into it. That had no business being erotic, but it was. “I’m only trying to show you how efficient a footman I can be. You see, I can polish _two_ candlesticks at once.” Jimmy didn’t understand at first, not until Thomas slicked up both their cocks, then held them loosely together in one hand. One moment, he was humming pleasantly at the feel of Thomas finally stroking him properly; the next, his whole body was set afire by relentless friction, his eyes threatening to roll back into his head.

Artlessly, instinctively, they bucked against one another until Thomas gripped Jimmy’s hip firmly in hand and guided them into a steady, rolling rhythm. Jimmy sank down into a mostly supine position. Thomas bowed over him, dotting his neck and shoulder with sloppy kisses, mussed blond hair sweeping across his brow and tickling Jimmy’s skin. He ran the pad of his thumb across the heads of their pricks, spreading the growing wetness there.

“God, that’s so—it’s _so_ —oh, _Thomas_.” Jimmy’s voice broke on the last word. He knew he was ruining the game, and he didn’t care. As it was, he couldn’t be anyone else but the man tangled up in bed with Thomas Barrow, hungrily pawing at his arse, dragging him closer in a wordless demand for _faster_ and _harder_ and _more, more, more_.

Their chests were touching now, the movements of Thomas’ hand increasingly frantic. He buried his face into the hollow of Jimmy’s collarbone, his mouth shaping a long string of mostly nonsense, although Jimmy heard his own name more than once. Outside in the storm, a howling, eerie wind whirled to life, so loud and fierce it sounded as if it had followed them into the room. Jimmy’s eyes slid shut of their own accord, the world reduced to the red veins tracing the inside of his lids, fevered panting, Thomas pressing against him so completely they could’ve been one person. The coil in his gut drew tighter and tighter, until it was all too much, until he was certain he would _die_ , and then—pleasure, yes, but something else, too. A rushing in his ears, a swooping behind his ribcage like tumbling down a deep hole. Dimly, he was aware of Thomas thrusting wildly above him, his own release following a heartbeat behind.

When his senses returned to him, Jimmy was lying half-atop Thomas, bliss floating around him in a fine haze. The storm had either dissipated or passed them by; everything was blessedly quiet now, save the occasional dripping from the eaves. Eyes still closed, he nosed at the pulse hammering away underneath Thomas’ jaw, playfully nipped him there. He received a happy sigh in return, sleepy fingers tracing meaningless patterns onto his upper arm. As he reached up a hand to the broad, solid chest heaving beneath him, he brushed against a patch of downy hair—

Hair. Hairy chest.

Jimmy’s eyes flew open. He sat up, balancing on his elbow, and studied intently the man lying beside him. It was Thomas, _truly_ Thomas, dark hair messy upon the pillow, lips red and ruined, long lashes casting shadows onto the tops of pinkened cheekbones. And then there were the funner bits of his anatomy, which Jimmy was finally in a position to properly appreciate. He’d never seen anything so beautiful before. A huge, stupid grin was slowly overtaking his face.

Blindly, Thomas gripped Jimmy’s arm, trying to pull him back down. “Don’t leave yet. Please.” His voice was roughened and dazed, but it was definitely _his_.

“I’m not.” Jimmy’s whisper trembled with excitement. “Thomas, _open your eyes_.”

He did. Surprise gave way to delight, his injured palm rising to cup the curve of Jimmy’s cheek. The uneven texture was comforting and familiar, reminding him of the bumps and divots in a queue of piano keys when he slid an experimental hand across them. “You’re back,” Thomas breathed.

“Mmm. So are you.” Jimmy indulged in a lingering up-and-down glance along the line of Thomas’ nude body. Thomas looked down, too. Although his face was still red from their earlier exertions, Jimmy could swear he was blushing. He eased himself down to lay on his side, fingers curling possessively along Thomas’ hip, thumb rubbing the nub of bone. “I think this calls for a little celebration, don’t you?”

Thomas snorted and removed the hand. “You’ll have to wait a bit before I’m in any fit state to ‘celebrate’ again. I’m not as young as I used to be five minutes ago, you know.”

Jimmy made a valiant attempt at pouting, but the smile kept slipping back into place. He pinched Thomas’ side and wriggled off the bed. His legs wobbled a bit when he stood, but he felt strong and free and lighter than air. “Dance with me, then,” he said, holding out his hand for Thomas to take. “You know the foxtrot, yeah?”

“You’re mad,” Thomas said, although he was grinning, too. “They’ll _hear_ us.”

“So what?”

“ _So_ , I don’t fancy Carson barging in, demanding to know what’s all this racket, and finding the two of us twirling about with no clothes on. Do you?”

“You’re no fun at all.” Jimmy sighed, feeling a little like a parent trying to soothe a difficult child. “What about a celebratory drink? Or do you have an objection to that as well?”

Thomas rolled his eyes as if _he_ were the long-suffering one, which was of course ridiculous. “That sounds nice.”

Jimmy walked over to his— _finally_ his again—dresser, and made a bit of a show of bending over to open the bottom drawer. He got a pair of trousers thrown at his head for his trouble. “I’ve only the one glass.” He held it up, and the bottle of gin in his other hand. “I’ll let you use it, since you’re the guest.”

“How gracious of you, considering I’ve been living in this room for nearly a fortnight.”

Thomas had crawled under the covers. Jimmy joined him, pouring out a generous couple of fingers and lifting the lip of the bottle to his mouth. They sat a while, drinking in contented silence. Jimmy’s head gradually slumped down onto Thomas’ shoulder. The moon emerged from behind a nest of clouds, casting patches of bluish light onto the far wall. As Jimmy tilted his face up to suggest they hunt down a pack of cigarettes, he noticed Thomas glancing furtively at the clock on the nightstand. “Do you have to leave soon?”

“Ah, yes,” said Thomas. Jimmy’s disappointment must have shown on his face, because he hastened to add, “But it won’t be like this forever. We’ll put some money aside, make plans…” Beneath the sheets, shy fingertips skimmed Jimmy’s knuckles, there and gone again. “That is, if that’s still what you want.”

What a strange man, able to survive an assault by a gang of bloodthirsty thugs, yet so fragile when it came to matters of the heart. Perhaps Jimmy would have to spend every day of the rest of their lives telling Thomas, in a thousand little ways, how dearly he was loved. Now _that_ was a wonderful thought. Jimmy set the bottle down, leaned over and took the glass from Thomas’ hand. Then he straddled him, knees planted on either side of muscled, hairy thighs, blanket pooling around their legs. Unless he was mistaken, that nudge against his hip meant Thomas was ready for another bout of celebrating, but for the time being he simply enjoyed the feel of their two bodies pressed together—nose to nose, chest to chest, groin to groin—the boundaries between _his_ and _mine_ blurring into the happy realm of _ours_. A kiss, soft and slow, marked the corner of Thomas’ mouth. And, so there could be no doubt, Jimmy said, “It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments welcome! you can also find me on tumblr at donnqnoble


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